


Cherry on Top

by sweetfarthing



Series: Post-war Snapshots [1]
Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Cheesy, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death, Multi, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 00:04:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetfarthing/pseuds/sweetfarthing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Padma is dead. Her parents are dead. What does Parvati have to live for?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cherry on Top

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little snippet of my post-war world.

As the day progressed, and the sun shined brilliantly for the first time in weeks, people were silently cursing the irony it presented. Britain’s wizarding world was in ruins, Hogwarts was demolished to the point of being unrecognizable and the final battlegrounds were still being cleared of various unidentifiable bodies. 

So far, there had been no survivors found trapped among the rubble.

One of the people doing the clearing was Parvati Patil.  
This was her first day out of bed since the battle. She had been holed up in the infirmary healing from wounds inflicted by Fenrir, and mourning the loss of her sister. 

She had emerged from the ward this morning a changed woman. She was cold and distant; a hardened, harsh version of her previously bubbly personality. 

After breakfast, during which she avoided looking at the Ravenclaw table, or George Weasley, she learned a few diagnostic spells from Madame Pomfrey and went out onto the battlefield.

Without batting an eyelid, she threw herself into her work, moving quickly and silently among the scorched, blood-stained grass and huge-stones, avoiding solitary body parts with precision.

Every body she levitated from rubble was another death she didn’t care about. They were not her sister, they were not her family, and they were not her friends. This was just work, just doing what Padma would have done, what Padma would have wanted her to do.  
She wouldn’t mourn the loss of her looks, like Lavender, and lock herself in a room, refusing to see anyone.

No, Padma would yell at her if she stayed so vain.

Parvati could imagine it now. Padma would stand in front of her, wrapping her long, black hair into a high bun, pushing up her sleeves in frustration, and she would shout, “ ’Vati! Would you stop being so vain? You’re alive! You have a few scars now, but you’re even more gorgeous than before! Now get up and come help!”  
She would squeeze her tight and kiss her forehead; what their mother used to call a ‘cherry on top’.

She can’t do that now. There would be no more cherries on top, not from her sister, nor her parents. Parvati was alone.

She would handle it. Padma could’ve handled it.  
She pursed her lips and wiped at her sweaty brow when she spotted the small mangled body of a Gryffindor, James Mead; a sweet little first year who hadn’t been evacuated with his year mates. 

The permanent lump in her throat grew.

James was one of her favorite little Gryffies. He was adorably angelic, with blond curls and blue eyes on a baby face.  
Wise beyond his years, he was the one who comforted her after fights with her sister. He was her little brother.  
He didn’t deserve to die here.

She couldn’t even muster up the tears to mourn him; all her tears had been given to her sister. She doubted she would ever cry again.

For the past three days, Parvati had been resigning herself to the fact that she was the survivor. She accepted the fact that Padma would never again seek her out at night, unable to sleep without her sister. Now she had lost both Paddy and little Jamsie.

Padma would stay seventeen forever, she would always be the young, silken haired, doe-eyed teenager she was that last night.  
James was mangled and crushed. Parvati almost couldn’t bear to see him. She didn’t know how he died.

Padma died by killing curse not long into the battle.  
She was unblemished and as beautiful as Parvati once fancied herself to be.

She absently trailed a hand across the scars along her jaw, a gift from a werewolf, and using her wand, levitated heavy stones from the young boy’s body.

She recalled there was another Mead, a fifth-year girl in Hufflepuff, James told her. She probably hadn’t survived either.

Parvati wondered if that would be better. If she had died along with her sister, maybe she wouldn’t hurt.

The gaping void in her heart was ragged, and her emotions were scrambling to right themselves.  
Should she be happy for having come out the other side?  
Should she be celebrating the survivor’s in that “glass half full” way of the Gryffindors?  
No. None of her year-mates had lost a twin. The ONLY, only person, who could sympathize was George Weasley. She had yet to even hear him speak.

There was anger. Anger at Voldemort, and his Death-Eaters, at Dumbledore for not being here to protect his students, at Snape for killing him; she was mad at Harry for killing Voldemort, then collapsing, another brother lost to the fighting.  
She was mad at herself, for fighting beside Lavender and Seamus, instead of her bloody sister.  
She was mad at the other Gryffindors, for celebrating their own survival, beckoning her to join in as if she hadn’t just lost her bloody other-half. Not caring about James, or Colin Creevey, who kept his small stature while his heart and courage grew.  
In fits of fury she sometimes felt she would trade all the survivors to have them back.

She was furious for being so selfish, for not caring that Lavender was forever disfigured. She was still alive. She still wasn’t Padma.  
She was saddened that she hadn’t been there. No matter how horrid it would have been, those were still her sister’s last moments.  
Parvati should have been there. She should have died with her sister. 

They came in together, they should go out together.

Parvati had no more tears to cry. There was work to be done. 

So after three days of black-out screaming and crying, Parvati dusted herself off, changed her own bandages, and got to work.

A cough brought her back to her thoughts. As she had absently been removing the rubble from James, she hadn’t realized that the little first-year was still breathing.

A groan of, “help” escaped his lips. Barely a whisper, but Parvati heard.

Bloody hell, did Parvati hear.

She pounced like a mother bear protecting her cubs.  
Immediately she began casting the diagnostic charms she learned that morning from Madame Pomfrey.  
“James? James, it’s Parvati. I’m here, you’re alive, and we won. It’s over.” Parvati’s voice was growing more and more hysterical as she frantically cast the basic healing charms she had picked up in school.  
James is alive, holy shit, my James is alive.  
This was the first survivor they had found in the ruins during three days of searching. 

She didn’t notice the smile on her face, or the tears in her eyes, but others did.

Seamus walked over to where she knelt, and let out a scream, “Oi! Parvati found a survivor! It’s a first year, Mead! Get Pomfrey over here!”

Seamus’ face was surprised. Little James was in tears and Parvati was definitely whispering and singing to him, brushing his hair back in a gesture of comfort.  
She kissed his forehead and the boy’s eyelids fluttered.

“It’s ok, James. It’s all over. I know it hurts but Madame Pomfrey is on her way and she can fix anything. I’m so glad you’re alive, James, I’m just so-” Parvati broke off, her murmurs dissolving into quiet sobs of relief as she clutched at the young boy’s bruised hand.

This first year had survived three days being trapped under rubble, horribly injured, with no food or water. “A Gryffindor through and through,” thought Seamus proudly.  
Parvati though, this was promising. 

Since the battle, Parvati cried for no one but her sister, and this morning, she was working with the efficiency of what the adults said was Alastor Moody in his prime. Seamus, Dean, Neville, none of her friends could get through to her. 

Seamus was glad that she had broken the mask. Parvati wasn’t a hard person, she was light and soft and loving. It was disheartening to see her light so snuffed out. His hope had returned with her smile.

More people gathered around him, all too happy for the moment of levity to continue their fruitless rummaging for survivors, as Madame Pomfrey worked to physically heal the boy. She was doing good, but not like Parvati. After being administered a pepper-up, James was staring at Parvati like the sun shone out her arse. Parvati was still murmuring and comforting, her disfigured face giving the boy another dazzling smile through her tears.  
Seamus’ heart stopped. The girl was bloody gorgeous. She was scarred herself, with many viable excuses to shut herself in a room like Lavender and sob over her scars and losses, yet here she was helping another, rejoicing in another’s survival.  
The group continued watching the two survivors, James and Parvati interact.  
Watching them heal each other.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not sure where I was going with this. I don’t know how I like the ending either. I reserve the right to tweak this when I find out what isn't working! Feedback is appreciated and may help fix that nagging feeling I have about this!


End file.
